Returning to camp did not mean our fight was over. Stephenson had barely finished sending his situation report before he was cornered by the S3 and informed that our TPT had again been requested at Camp Gannon. Josh and I got the news as we walked with our team leader to dinner. We had time enough to shower, clean our weapons, enjoy a few meals in the chow hall, do laundry, and write some emails home before pushing once more into the desert.
The route from Al Qa’im to the Syrian border usually wound overland to avoid the mined highways, but even off-road there was no guaranteed safe passage. The enemy had enough mines to spare, and a general idea of our routes, to still be effective, on occasion, at hitting the resupply convoys on their way to the Gannon outpost by emplacing numerous belts of mines along our likely routes. We had to be especially watchful passing through natural chokepoints and wadis as the insurgents knew what type of terrain our vehicles could not traverse and booby-trapped the areas where we were most likely to cross. It was also an almost hopeless exercise trying to detect the mines because the insurgents camouflaged them too well. Halfway through our trip the water tanker in front of us found one with a startling bang! that rocked the truck on its axles and shredded a tire.
“There goes our shower water,” I remarked glumly.
It was an irreverent statement in the wake of what could have been a tragic accident, but in my mind, belittling the significance of the event helped me deny my fear the same might happen to us.
The explosion did no damage to the cab, but the truck’s occupants were understandably shaken and their disabled truck had to be towed back to Al Qa’im. My teammates and I were too shocked at how preposterously often it seemed we narrowly avoided being hit ourselves to immediately feel any reaction. Denial was more tolerable. This strike made at least the third time a truck directly in front of or behind us had been hit. As the immediacy of potential death sank in, the familiar bitter tang of fear and despair again coated my tongue. The rest of our trip was darkened by the shadow of gloomy silence and dread anticipation.
How much longer could we avoid running over a mine ourselves? How could we not be worried, if even the open desert wasn’t safe?
Statistically speaking, the chances of our luck running out seemed to rise with each near miss we avoided.
To our great relief we reached Camp Gannon without further incident. I felt the euphoria of a runner sliding into home plate with the umpire waving his arms and calling “Safe!”. The camp was an ordered, predictable sanctuary after our nerve-wracking trek, even though I still remembered that snipers might be watching from the nearby rooftops.
At least there wouldn’t be any mines.
I scanned over the HESCO perimeter walls skeptically as Josh steered toward our previous parking spot, keeping my head low in the turret.
To my surprise, I spotted a healthy-looking dog sauntering along behind a pair of Marines inside the camp! It was unmistakably their loyal pet. Normally all service members in Iraq were prohibited from keeping pets and mascots under General Order 1, the same order that forbade alcohol and pornography, but the Marines made no obvious attempt to hide their four-legged friend. The fact they walked openly with him through the camp meant their leadership endorsed keeping him, or at least turned a blind eye.
Camp Gannon may have lacked some of the conveniences of the larger bases, like regular showers, but its isolation permitted a more relaxed interpretation of normal garrison rules and regulations. India Company’s Marines faced more pressing daily stresses. They could therefore be entitled some leniency in regards to enforcing all the military’s bureaucratic prohibitions, especially if that prohibition was one that denied them the therapeutic companionship of man's best friend.
Regardless of their legality, the Marines’ pets were service dogs in the same sense that dogs who visit nursing homes to comfort the sick provide a service. For the men who spent their days huddled in bunkers listening to the crash of mortar shells with no one to turn to but each other, the small comfort provided by a dog’s gentle nuzzle must have been indispensable. The relationship between the dogs and their keepers was an island of kindness in an ocean of violence. There was such tenderness to be seen in watching the simple act of Marines feeding the dogs scraps carried from their new chow hall that I had to think back a very long time to remember anything more moving.
We spent three days with the Marines and their dogs inside the bunkers, rarely venturing outside except for food or the dubious relief of the latrine. Our days consisted mainly of playing cards and sleeping away the hours, waiting fretfully for the moment a runner would knock on our door.
Captain Delorian’s days were occupied with far weightier responsibilities than talking with a couple of army sergeants. Husaybah had recently become the flashpoint of a new battleground, one between native Iraqis and foreign Al-Qaeda fighters. Several gun battles had erupted in the streets during the weeks prior as the locals grew bolder and more indignant in response to their treatment at the hands of militants. No longer would they suffer heavy-handed rapes and forceful evictions performed in the name of jihad. In their eyes, the Americans had at last become the lesser of two evils. Changing perceptions of the Iraqis toward the Marines had opened the door to negotiations with local tribal leaders to discuss the once unthinkable prospect of forming an alliance with them against Zarqawi and Al-Qaeda.
On our third day in the camp the commander invited us to attend a meeting of Marine leaders and civilian strategists. Josh, Stephenson, and I sat against the wall of a dark, low-ceilinged room in the command post. The seats around the table were reserved for the officers. I suspected one of the shadowy men dressed in a polo shirt and khakis represented the CIA, or maybe the State Department, though no mention of his employer was made.
The agenda was a discussion of the potential future of a new alliance.
At the time I had no way of knowing, but the meeting was to be one of the first toward the establishment of a movement called the “Awakening,” a popular tribal uprising against Al-Qaeda that would mature to become the U.S.-funded, Iraqi-manned, private militia known as the “Sons of Iraq.”
The man in the polo shirt cleared his throat. He exuded an air of gloating condescension, as if he were the smartest man in the world and had taken pity on us simpletons to share his invention of a secret weapon that would win the war.
“The great thing about these tribesmen is that they are basically cannon fodder,” he said, with all the nonchalance of a man discussing what he had eaten for breakfast.
“All we have to do is arm them and they will fight for us. They are pissed off at Al-Qaeda already. We have potentially got the makings of a whole proxy army here. We need to continue to exploit this red-on-red violence! If it is Iraqis who are dying, nobody cares. The American people don’t hear about dead Iraqis on the news. They will do our job for us, and your Marines don’t go home in body bags. We couldn’t have asked for a better opportunity!”
The frankness of the man’s presumptions slightly turned my stomach.
Had I really heard correctly that our latest strategy was to use the Iraqis as expendable proxies, to press them into unwitting service toward achieving our own strategic goals?
We would send the Iraqis to their death with no more feeling than had they been cattle entering the slaughterhouse. They could expect no medals for heroism or death gratuities for their families, no words of thanks for their sacrifice or parades when they returned home. Yet they would shoulder the task without complaint, because the shame of doing nothing pained them more than the indignities they endured at the hands of the jihadists. It was their homeland they defended. They would think their fight against Al-Qaeda had been their idea all along.
I learned that the U.S. government had already been surreptitiously arming the tribes with shipments of ammunition and rifles, preparing them to fight the better-armed Al-Qaeda militants with the assurance they had the backing of the American military. But, they did not have our respect for their humanity nor our compassion. It was simply more cost effective and publicly acceptable to have them die instead of us.
Our team’s role was to broadcast those assurances of support to the citizens of Husaybah in hopes of stirring them to action. This time Captain Delorian personally prepared the message text. Stephenson collected the finished product from his office shortly after our meeting. It was a single page, typed all in capital letters, which ran together like a Roman epitaph. Both reassuring and ambiguous, there was no question it was intended as a hint that the people should act soon to flush Al-Qaeda from their streets. Indirectly, it also questioned their honor and courage by implying that if they were not brave enough, Coalition Forces would do the job and rob them of the chance to exact revenge on the terrorists.
Josh and Sonny translated the broadcast onto a minidisk while Stephenson and I left the bunker to coordinate a security plan with the tank crews. Within the hour we were headed out the gate serenaded by a raucous squeak and clatter of tank treads.
Our invincible-looking guardians led us to a berm north of the city and turned their massive guns outward. Anyone who wanted to attack us would have to have a death wish. The tanks whirred menacingly. I aimed the speaker so that its sound waves would echo toward the crowded market street.
“All set!” I called down.
My bones hummed in sync with the intensity of Sonny’s amplified voice:
Good people of Husaybah and Iraq, peace and blessings once again be upon you. Over the past few days many of the evil beasts who have been trying to bring hatred and evil into the streets of this good city have been killed or captured by Coalition Forces. But there are still terrorist dogs who care nothing about you or your families and who desire only to bring terror to this good city. Coalition Forces will continue to hunt down and kill those terrorist dogs. Once Iraqi security forces arrive they will continue the work to bring peace and prosperity to Husaybah, Al Qa’im, and all of Iraq. Brave people of Husaybah and Al Qa’im! The coalition forces respect the way you have stood up and defended your families honor by defeating the evil terrorists. They have killed innocent children, dishonored your holy places, and shown disrespect to your families and your homes. However it is no surprise that the terrorists have no respect because their own leader, Abu Musab Al Zarqawi is a foreigner who cares nothing about Iraq except to use the innocent blood of Iraqis for his own selfish purposes. Abu Musab Al Zarqawi, who is also known as Ahmed Fadhil Al Khalaylah, born in the city of Al Zarqa, Jordan, pledges his loyalty not to Iraqis, but to foreigners—which is why he does not care if your children are murdered and your honor destroyed. He is only concerned with his selfish desires, not yours, and because of this fact, the Coalition and Iraqi Forces will continue to hunt down and kill those who threaten to harm the innocent. Good people of Husaybah and Al Qa’im—your bravery and courage will bring a bright future for you and your families. Many brave citizens have been providing information that has helped destroy these evil terrorists. Join your brave countrymen and neighbors in their stand against the evil terrorists and call the tips line with any information. Coalition Forces along with Iraqi security forces will continue to fight against those who do not respect the people of this city and country.
By the end of the broadcast all the birds had flown away, and the countryside seemed oddly unfamiliar in the absence of sound. My eardrums throbbed furiously. At least for one more day, our job was done. We had planted a seed. It was up to the Iraqis to harvest the fruit, although when we Americans would entrust them in full deference to their sovereignty to do it alone I could not be sure.